Page 38

THIRTY-TWO

lauren

My mind is still churning from this morning’s conversation with Abby when I head outside for the annual hide-and-seek competition.

I came way too close to giving away our charade when Abby asked questions about Kansas City.

Not only did I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for not telling her the truth about Tate, but the entire conversation made me question my own priorities—things I never would’ve given a second thought to before this week.

But there’s no time to dwell on that now.

Aunt Karen stands before us, ready to announce the rules for our game this afternoon.

I catch sight of Tate across the circle, still wearing his ridiculously cute socks with hiking boots, looking windblown and far too handsome after his Nerf battle with the kids.

He catches my eye and gives me a small, private smile that makes my heart flip.

Remember, he’s pretending. His ex wants to meet up with him. This isn’t real, no matter how real it feels when he looks at me.

Aunt Karen clears her throat. “Before we begin, the current standings are as follows…”

She reads from her clipboard, announcing that Bart and Abby have decided to compete separately, so they’re both technically tied for first place. Tate and I are close behind, which means we’re still in the running if we can pull off a win today.

Olivia leans over and whispers, “Jake and I are throwing the competition for you. We’ll hide somewhere obvious.”

I squeeze her hand in silent thanks, even as guilt prickles up my spine. My entire family is all-in on supporting my relationship with Tate, completely unaware it’s built on a foundation of half-truths.

“Okay, the rules are simple,” Aunt Karen says. “I’m the one who finds each of you, and the last one left hiding wins. You can go anywhere, but no leaving the property. Got it?”

We all agree, including the kids, who are eager to compete against the adults. Annie is with Granny for the afternoon, probably being spoiled by too many treats and belly rubs.

“Remember, once you’re found, you have to come back to the lodge and wait,” Aunt Karen adds. “No helping others hide better or giving away positions. That means you, Ray,” she says, giving her husband a pointed look.

As soon as my aunt blows the whistle, everyone takes off running in all directions, except for Tate. He turns toward me instead. “Let’s plan a strategy.”

“But we only have five minutes to hide,” I say, watching the group scramble toward their hiding spots, the pressure of the ticking clock bearing down on us. “If we don’t go now, we won’t get a good place.”

“Better to have a plan than to rush into something,” Tate says, looking like he’s about to launch into a slideshow presentation. “Research says that people who plan things have a thirty percent better success rate…”

“Tate,” I interrupt, setting my hands on my hips. “Skip the research and just tell me where we should hide.”

“People will expect us to spread out, to go as far away as possible from the lodge. But what if we hid where people least expect because it’s right under their noses?”

“And where is that? ”

“The lodge,” he says. “In the basement storage closet.”

I frown. “But that’s always locked.”

“Not if you have the key,” he says, pulling it out of his pocket and showing me the silver object in his hand.

“How did you get that?” I whisper, glancing around. “Granny never lets anyone use it.”

“I borrowed it when I offered to help Granny mop the floor and never gave it back.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I know,” he says, looking quite proud that he fooled Granny.

We take off toward the lodge at a jog, careful to stay low and use the bushes for cover whenever possible. Tate keeps glancing back to make sure we’re not being followed.

“Coast is clear,” he whispers as we reach the back porch. Through the window, I can see the house is empty—everyone else is outside searching for hiding spots among the trees and outbuildings. The perfect time to execute Tate’s plan.

We slip inside, our footsteps quiet on the hardwood floors. Tate motions toward the basement door. “Nobody thinks to hide inside when the whole property is available. And they especially won’t check the storage closet in the basement.”

We head through the large game room to the back of the basement, where a small hallway leads to a utility room and locked closet. Tate slides the key in, and with a swift turn, opens the door.

I step inside the tight space, which has enough room to store tables and folding chairs—and definitely wasn’t meant for humans. It’s probably no bigger than the elevator we were trapped in.

He shuts the door and then turns around. His mouth tightens, a small muscle clenching in his jaw. “This place is smaller than I remembered.”

I can see how his shoulders hunch slightly, and his eyes dart around like he’s looking for an escape. With his broad frame, he must feel like a giant trapped in a dollhouse. Immediately, I can sense how much he hates this.

“We can leave,” I say, giving him an out. “I know small spaces make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to stay.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t have to do this, Tate. I know how you feel about small spaces. It’s not worth the anxiety just to win.”

He leans against the wall and tips his head back, like he’s trying to find a calmer place. “I’ll never get over it if I refuse to do hard things. Now, turn off the light, because we need to win this game.” He swallows hard, his jaw set.

I flick off the lights, and suddenly, we’re plunged into darkness. The air feels thicker, and I immediately feel Tate stiffen in the darkness.

“Does this make it worse with the lights out?” I ask.

“Depends on whether I let my mind win,” he says, his voice tight.

I reach for his shoulder, my fingers finding the knotted muscles. “I’m here—if you need me.”

That’s when I feel his hand on my arm, a gentle pull, guiding me toward him. He’s tugging me closer in the dark, as if to say I need you closer.

When I’m finally right next to him, I notice his skin is cool, his breathing shallow. He hangs on to me tightly, like I’m the one saving him from drowning now.

I’ve spent my career helping hockey players look brave for the public—crafting their image into something that makes them appear impenetrable even when they’re scared. But there’s more courage in this moment, in Tate allowing me to see him vulnerable, than in any moment I’ve experienced before.

“Tate, look at me. Even if you can’t see me.” I feel him shift, and can barely make out the outline of his face in the dark. “I promise to help you through this. But you have to breathe with me. ”

“I can’t see you, Sunny.”

“But you can feel me, right? Feel my breath?” I take his hand and place it against the side of my rib cage. “Match mine.”

I wrap my arms around him, tucking my head against his chest where I can hear his heartbeat—too fast, but steady. For a moment, we just stand there, pressed together in the dark. Not saying a word. Breathing in time.

When his breathing finally falls into rhythm with mine, I feel his muscles begin to relax, his arms settling more naturally around me. That’s when I become suddenly aware of our close proximity, the way my body responds to his, wants to be closer to him.

“How do you feel now?” I whisper, not letting him go.

“Not as panicky,” he says, his breath grazing the shell of my ear. “Maybe even almost fine.” He pauses, then says, “This feels like slow dancing without the music.”

A soft laugh escapes my lips. “Maybe we should practice while we’re here.”

“So I get better for next time?” he asks.

“Tate, if I get the job in Kansas City, I might not be here next time.” The words tumble out before I can catch them, hanging in the darkness between us.

“So, this might be the last time?” he asks and there’s something in his voice that’s suddenly more serious.

Like he’s realizing what this week means for both of us.

His hand finds mine in the dark, and then ever so carefully, he places it on his shoulder before our fingers entwine and we begin to sway in the tight space.

“We can’t really move our feet,” he adds, “but that means I also can’t step on your toes either.”

“And there’s no music,” I say.

He rests his cheek against my head and the tenderness of the gesture makes something in my chest ache. “Pick whatever song you want, Sunny.”

“Ah, so you’re using me to distract you from this small space,” I note with a smile he can probably hear in my voice .

“Is that wrong? Because you’re a good distraction.” His fingers trace small circles on my back.

“It’s not wrong to admit you need someone.” I press my lips together as a memory rolls in, something I haven’t thought about in years. “My mom used to hold me like this during thunderstorms when I was little.”

“I’ll have to remember that. I’m very good at snuggling during storms,” he says.

“Well, I haven’t been afraid of thunderstorms since I was ten,” I say.

“Not that I don’t still wake up. I’ve never been able to sleep all the way through one.

” I suddenly imagine Tate holding me during a storm, his strong arms cradling me against him.

It’s incredible, the way a touch from the right person can heal you.

Tate makes me feel safe in a way I’ve never felt before.

“You and your mom had a special relationship, didn’t you?” he asks, as we gently sway in the dark.

I nod, swallowing down the familiar feeling of sadness that bubbles to the surface whenever I think of Mom. “We did. I can’t believe how much it still hurts some days.”

“I know, Sunny,” he whispers, stroking the back of my hair. “If it helps, I like it when you talk about her. It makes me feel like I’m getting to know her, even though she’s not here.”

I smile in the dark, despite my eyes filling with tears. “I wish my dad would still talk about her.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not thinking of her,” Tate says. “Your dad still misses your mom. He’s just learning how to love again. You can love someone who’s gone. It never has to end.”

I breathe in that thought—so much comfort in knowing my dad still holds Mom in his heart. “I know it’s true; I just wish he’d waited until after the reunion to start dating,” I say, feeling a little guilty, even though Tate doesn’t judge me for it.

He stops dancing, his hand stills on my back. “Not everything comes at the right time, Sunny. Especially when it comes to love. Sometimes, it shows up at the worst possible time. ”

In the darkness, I can feel his fingers trailing along my back with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. They reach the curve of my neck, his thumb stroking lightly across my collarbone.

“Tate, why do you hate small spaces so much?” I ask, trying to change the subject before I do something I might regret later.

His whole body freezes. “It was when I was eight, before my sister got sick. We were playing in the woods near our house, and she saw a kitten or raccoon or something dart into this storm drain that went under a road. You know the kind, a pipe just wide enough for a kid to crawl into that’s open on both ends. ”

My chest tightens, already sensing where this is going.

“She went in after it, but she didn’t go far.

A few seconds later, she started screaming.

She was stuck, panicking, couldn’t move.

I tried to talk her out, but she was too scared.

So I crawled in to rescue her, and managed to help her out, but by then, I couldn’t move.

I was wedged between the walls, stuck with my arms pinned and my face pressed sideways, and it was dark.

I remember every second—how hot it got, how hard it was to breathe. ”

He shifts on his feet. “It took the firefighters twenty minutes to get me out. My sister was crying. And after that…I never felt okay in small spaces again.”

“Tate,” I whisper, my hand finding his in the dark. “No one could feel safe after that.”

He shrugs, but it’s a forced motion. Pretend. “The newspaper came out and took a picture. My face was all over the news, and I hated every second.”

My eyes blur with tears. “Which is why…” My voice nearly cracks. “You don’t like pictures.”

“Yeah, Sunny,” he whispers so quietly I almost miss it.

It all makes sense now. His resistance toward the spotlight. How he skips photo shoots. He’s not trying to be difficult, he’s trying to survive. To take someone’s trauma and make a spectacle out of it is the worst kind of PR stunt .

“And then a year later, she was diagnosed,” he says. “Spent the rest of her life in hospital rooms, hooked up to machines. Trapped in her own body. Maybe that’s part of it, too. Sickness is a different kind of trapped…but just as scary.”

My hand slides up to his cheek, where I cup his face. “You are the bravest person I know.”

“I’m not brave, Sunny.” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s what brave is, Tate. It means when you face danger, you don’t run. You put yourself in harm’s way, even if it means you get hurt, too.”

I bring his face to mine, resting my forehead against his in the dark.

For a beat, we just stay this way, breathing together in the dark, because this is the only thing I know how to do.

His hand brushes lightly against my waist, tentative, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

“You always act like you’re the logical one,” I murmur, “but underneath all that logic, you care more than anyone I know.”

“Only about the things that matter,” he says. “All the facts, all the knowledge in the world can’t replace my sister.”

“I know, but it’s what makes you special.

” I reach up on my tiptoes and tip my mouth closer to his.

I can feel the hesitation there, the wanting.

There’s an undeniable pull between us, as if we’re standing on the edge of something monumental.

But if I let myself surrender to it, we can never go back—not to how things used to be.

Now there’s more to lose, because we’ve shared a piece of ourselves that no one else gets to see.

I’ve cracked the door open to my heart, letting him in, and now all I want is for him to kick it all the way open.

Suddenly, the basement door creaks, followed by a voice. “Tate? Lauren?” Aunt Karen’s calls echo down the stairwell.

“How did she…?” I whisper .

“Shhh.” Tate buries me in his arms, his lips against the shell of my ear. “Stay quiet.”

Her footsteps stop outside our door. “If you’re down here, congratulations! You two are the official winners of hide-and-seek!”